Issue No. 15, Winter 2015

Among the garrets with his sister, he welcomed the swirling winter snow,
the frosted market square, the women in white fur-coats, the sleighs
that syncopated the imprints of road that lead in and lead away.
They rode the sled, flew down hills, followed the treeline to town,
found the general store with spiced brewed cider and a fire to melt
the dusting on their coats. He warmed her fingerless gloves
above the cast iron stove and lifted objects from the shelves,
considering the globe, the heft of glass around a home, embracing
a white noise of storms no waiting could escape. Isolation
of miniature pine tree grove, solitude of cabin inside a fence,
illumination of one window pulsed with internal fire—this orb
was a gift he could give. He grew up, grew into a black beard,
bore thick arms, bared the axe, the arrow, the hooded mask.
He was the woodsman, the huntsman, the one who stumbles
upon the princess, saves her or slays her, but never offers the kiss.

Andrea Blythe writes speculative poetry and fiction, which has appeared in various publications, including Nonbinary Review, Linden Avenue, Strange Horizons, and Bear Creek Haiku. www.andreablythe.com